The Eagle's Shadow eBook

At present the old gentleman is discussing the members
of his daughter’s house-party. We will
omit, by your leave, a number of picturesque descriptive
passages—­for the Colonel is, on occasion,
a man of unfettered speech—­and come hastily
to the conclusion, to the summing-up of the whole
matter.

“Altogether,” says Colonel Hugonin, “they
strike me as being the most ungodly menagerie ever
gotten together under one roof since Noah landed on
Ararat.”

Now, I am sorry that veracity compels me to present
the Colonel in this particular state of mind, for
ordinarily he was as pleasant-spoken a gentleman as
you will be apt to meet on the longest summer day.

[Illustration: “‘Altogether,’
says Colonel Hugonin, ’they strike me as being
the most ungodly menagerie ever gotten together under
one roof since Noah landed on Ararat.’”]

You must make allowances for the fact that, on this
especial morning, he was still suffering from a recent
twinge of the gout, and that his toast was somewhat
dryer than he liked it; and, most potent of all, that
the foreign mail, just in, had caused him to rebel
anew against the proprieties and his daughter’s
inclinations, which chained him to Selwoode, in the
height of the full London season, to preside over a
house-party every member of which he cordially disliked.
Therefore, the Colonel having glanced through the
well-known names of those at Lady Pevensey’s
last cotillion, groaned and glared at his daughter,
who sat opposite him, and reviled his daughter’s
friends with point and fluency, and characterised
them as above, for the reason that he was hungered
at heart for the shady side of Pall Mall, and that
their presence at Selwoode prevented his attaining
this Elysium. For, I am sorry to say that the
Colonel loathed all things American, saving his daughter,
whom he worshipped.

And, I think, no one who could have seen her preparing
his second cup of tea would have disputed that in
making this exception he acted with a show of reason.
For Margaret Hugonin—­but, as you know, she
is our heroine, and, as I fear you have already learned,
words are very paltry makeshifts when it comes to
describing her. Let us simply say, then, that
Margaret, his daughter, began to make him a cup of
tea, and add that she laughed.

Not unkindly; no, for at bottom she adored her father—­a
comely Englishman of some sixty-odd, who had run through
his wife’s fortune and his own, in the most
gallant fashion—­and she accorded his opinions
a conscientious, but at times, a sorely taxed, tolerance.
That very month she had reached twenty-three, the age
of omniscience, when the fallacies and general obtuseness
of older people become dishearteningly apparent.

“It’s nonsense,” pursued the old
gentleman, “utter, bedlamite nonsense, filling
Selwoode up with writing people! Never heard of
such a thing. Gad, I do remember, as a young
man, meeting Thackeray at a garden-party at Orleans
House—­gentlemanly fellow with a broken nose—­
and Browning went about a bit, too, now I think of
it. People had ’em one at a time to lend
flavour to a dinner—­like an olive; we didn’t
dine on olives, though. You have ’em for
breakfast, luncheon, dinner, and everything!
I’m sick of olives, I tell you, Margaret!”
Margaret pouted.